To A Greek Girl

WITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come,— Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfilleted; A girlish shape that slips the bud In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoe! Where’er you pass,—where’er you go, I hear the pebbly rillet flow; Where’er you go,—where’er you pass, There comes a gladness on the grass; You bring blithe airs where’er you tread,— Blithe airs that blow from down and sea; You wake in me a Pan not dead,— Not wholly dead!—Autonoe! How sweet with you on some green sod To wreathe the rustic garden-god; How sweet beneath the chestnut’s shade With you to weave a basket-braid; To watch across the stricken chords Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee; To woo you in soft woodland words, With woodland pipe, Autonoe! In vain,—in vain! The years divide: Where Thames rolls a murky tide, I sit and fill my painful reams, And see you only in my dreams;— A vision, like Alcestis, brought From under-lands of Memory,— A dream of Form in days of Thought,— A dream,—a dream, Autonoe!